Four Seasons in a Day
by QuietLittleVoices
Summary: London weather isn't predictable by any means. No matter what the morning report says, you should always bring something for every situation. However, when you live with the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes, there isn't always time to snag an umbrella on your way out into a seemingly sunny day, nor is it practical to carry a bag with you everywhere.
1. A 'Perfect' Sunny Day

**A/N:** Biiiigggg thank you to the wonderful coffee-not-decaf for putting up with my shit and beta'ing again!

The title is based on a saying my family and I have about the weather in London because this is will be a series of weather-based oneshots. They'll probably be non-chronological, but input is welcome on that front. I'm open to start from here and build their relationship chronologically.

The rating is subject to change, but it would only be because I decide to start swearing. This series will be 95% fluff.

Hope you all enjoy it!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own BBC Sherlock or it's affiliates.

* * *

It had been a beautiful morning. The sun was shining and the only clouds in the sky where white and whispy.

John was in a very good mood, filling the dead air of the flat with his off-key whistling of cheerful songs only half-remembered, as he went about his business. It was almost noon when his flatmate had decided enough was enough.

"If you're going to make such infernal noises, could they at least be in the right _pitch_?" Sherlock asked from his place on the couch. He'd been sulking and was clad only in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

"Ah, so you are awake," John remarked easily, completely ignoring what his best friend had just said.

"What are you doing in the kitchen anyway? You've already had breakfast and it's much too early to be having lunch."

"I don't know; deduce it." The ex-army doctor took out the box of cellophane and made sure to tear off a piece much more loudly than completely necessary to give the consulting detective clues as to what he was up to.

After a few minutes of John obnoxiously using cellophane, Sherlock came up with a deduction. "Are you... preparing a picnic?"

John couldn't help but grin, even though the two where in different rooms and Sherlock couldn't see him. "Correct! Which means you are going to go have a shower and get dressed because I did not prepare all this food for nothing."

* * *

An hour later, they were ready to go. John has spent that time rummaging around for something – anything – to carry the food, eventually giving up and resigning to the fact that he'd have to use plastic bags. He was saved when Mrs. Hudson caught on to his endeavour and lent him the use of her wicker picnic basket.

"I don't see the use of this, John," Sherlock stated, flagging down a cab for them.

"There isn't one, really. You were bored and it's a nice day out here," he stated, getting into the cab after the detective. "Why shouldn't we go on a picnic?"

When Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to list the reasons, John interrupted him with a slightly threatening look. "We're going on a picnic and that is final."

The younger man sat for a second with his mouth open before closing it, deciding against voicing whatever-it-was that had been in his head. He looked pensive for a moment – not that he ever really looked any other way – before deciding, once again, to speak. "Why?"

"I got tired of you sulking, that's all," he answered easily. Too easily.

_He's lying_., Sherlock thought. But instead of pointing that out right away, he said, "I don't _sulk_."

"Then what do you call lying on the couch in your dressing gown all day?"

Sherlock had no response to that, and so they passed the rest of the drive in semi-comfortable silence.

* * *

When they reached the park, there were a few families with small children set up with the same idea as them. They got odd looks as Sherlock stood to the side, scowling and holding the basket, while John laid out the checkered blanket.

"You usually care about what people think," Sherlock stated, sitting on the blanket and leaning back, propped up on his forearms as John unpacked their lunch – sandwiches and macaroni salad.

The doctor waited for his flatmate to elaborate, and when he didn't, John prompted him with, "Yeah, and?"

"You don't seem to care right now."

"Well, it's a sunny day, and we're just as allowed to enjoy it as everyone else." Was John being... _defensive_? They both reached that conclusion at the same time, and John looked away, slightly embarrassed.

Sherlock looked at his friend intently – not caring, as usual, how this situation looked to others. Feeling the genius' gaze on him, John remained where he was, eating his sandwich slowly with his gaze anywhere but on the consulting detective.

"Honestly, John, why did you want to have a picnic today?"

John sighed and took a bite of his sandwich before answering, deciding to go with the actual truth this time. "When Harry and I were kids, our mum and dad would try and take us out every time the sun came out. Doesn't really happen often here, so they wanted to make the best of it. Sometimes, we'd go to the park and picnic or go to the zoo. It's just a bit of fun, and I thought you could use some."

The taller man nodded, as if accepting that explanation, and they continued to eat their lunch, making idle conversation – mostly consisting of Sherlock deducing things about the people around them and John telling him that he should just let everyone enjoy their day instead of going in and ruining it. Secretly, John found it amusing, and was fighting to keep a smile hidden the entire time. He didn't know that Sherlock was just making the deductions to get that reaction from him.

When they were done, John took out a small container from the bottom of the basket. "Mrs. Hudson told me only to give you one if you behaved, and since you didn't get us kicked off the property, you get a cupcake." Without waiting for a response, John took the two cupcakes out of the container and handed one to his flatmate, who held it slightly away from his face and looked at it quizzically.

They were small, vanilla cupcakes with chocolate icing, in white cups with a design of party balloons and confetti. The image it caused, held in the hands of the great Sherlock Holmes, made John laugh.

Sherlock turned his gaze from the confection to his only friend. "What? Why is this so funny to you?"

"Just, you, holding a cupcake from a child's birthday party," John answered. "It's a bit of a – what's the word? - juxtaposition."

"I still don't see why it's so funny," he muttered with a scowl, removing the cupcakes holder and placing it in the small bag John had brought for garbage. It was still a bit odd seeing the cold man holding something so small and delicate as a cupcake, but less so now that it no longer had the wrapping.

Ignoring John's now-dying laughter, Sherlock decidedly took a bite of his confection, getting chocolate icing on his face in the process.

The laughter had returned full force now as John tried to choke out, "You have a little something right _here_." He made a swiping motion with his thumb around the corner of his mouth with Sherlock copied but on the entirely wrong side of his mouth. "No _here_." Before he knew what he was doing, John reached over and swiped the chocolate off himself. He realized what he was doing quickly and pulled his hand away, cleaning his thumb on a napkin.

Feeling embarrassed and awkward, John took a bite of his own cupcake. He was careful not to get any on his face should the event repeat itself but in reverse.

That's when it started to rain.

And 'started' doesn't mean the sky went grey and a little bit of rain started to fall. No, one second it was all warm and sunny, then next the heavens were open and rain poured down on the patrons of the park.

Sherlock and John glanced at each other before getting up and packing away their things swiftly, not wanting to get more wet than they needed to. They knew that fetching a cab would be worse than useless – the chances of finding one while it was raining in London were the same as those of winning the lottery. Instead, they ducked into the nearest shelter they could find without checking the signs outside the door first.

To their credit, the opening looked like they would be heading into the underground. However, when they were completely underground and safe from the rain, they noticed that they were in a tourist attraction. A smugglers cave tour.

Since they couldn't very well leave, as it was still pouring, they decided to salvage their day and bought two tickets to the next tour. They spent the next hour wandering around the cave, with Sherlock correcting the tour guide on the facts about smugglers.

"I would have thought you'd have deleted that knowledge," John remarked after this had been going on for some time.

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. "Smugglers are criminals, John. It's useful to know about their history, in my line of work." The answer was a bit too forceful, leading John to believe there was something else to it, but he decided to let it go.

When they finally emerged from the darkness, the sun was out again, but the ground was wet and the air was damp. They found a cab almost as soon as they reached a main road and had it take them back to Baker Street.

After all was said and done, they were both quite pleased with all that had happened that day.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed.

Just so you know, this isn't my entry for rain, it's my entry for 'sunny day gone wrong'.

Also, along with what I mentioned at the top, I will take input as to what weather condition they should be subjected to next.


	2. Snow

It was a truly and spectacularly _cold_ morning as John Watson stood in the middle of a crime scene next to his mad genius of a flatmate.

Sherlock, in his long coat and scarf that he wore regardless of weather, was unaffected by the temperature – which John could swear was dropping with each and every passing second; he was not as prepared. The ex-army doctor had a coat, but not a winter one, and gloves, just not thick ones, so he stood there with his hands shoved either deep in his pockets or under his arms, fidgeting awkwardly in place, trying to conserve and create as much body heat as possible.

After another minute or so of this, it started to snow big, fluffy flakes. Sherlock only noticed when the victim was covered in a thin sheet of white. He sighed and said something vague about how the snow would contaminate the evidence and that there was no way to stop it, so he might as well leave, but John wasn't paying attention, excited as he was to finally be getting out of the cold. The consulting detective then stood up and rattled off his deductions to Lestrade before turning on his heel and marching off, leaving John to run after him.

When they were out of sight of the crime scene, Sherlock stopped suddenly and John almost ran into him. He took off his scarf without a word and looped it around John's neck.

John, of course, immediately tried to take it off again. "You'll be cold without this," he stated matter-of-factually. "No use both of us freezing our arses off."

Sherlock sighed the way one would when dealing with a child and grabbed John's wrists to keep them from taking off the scarf. "I'm not cold, John. Do I look cold?" he didn't wait for an answer. "You, however, haven't stopped shivering since we arrived."

"I can't take your scarf, Sherlock," John protested, yanking his hands out of his friends grasp and starting to take off the scarf again.

Instead of just grabbing his flatmates wrists, because that had proved futile before, Sherlock put his hands on either side of the shorter mans head. "I'm not taking it back until we reach Baker Street," he said in a tone that suggested no room for compromise. They stood like that, eyes locked, for just a moment more – longer than was purely 'platonic', though really nothing about this situation was, no matter how hard John tried to convince himself otherwise – before Sherlock removed his hands from John's head and stood up.

The consulting detective seemed to catch on to John's slight embarrassment, if the way he was looking anywhere but at his friend was any indication. He was looking up and down the road for a cab, but there was none to be seen.

"We're going to have to walk to a main road," Sherlock stated.

John felt a muscle in his cheek twitch as he fought to hide a grin. "No shit, Sherlock."

Finding no suitable response, the genius glared at his cheeky flatmate and stocked off towards the road.

* * *

There were no cabs in sight and so they ended up having to hop on a tour bus, using stolen police ID to get on without charge. They could do nothing but stand there awkwardly amidst the tourists, gaping at the 'detectives' who were dripping on everything as the snow that had been stuck to their clothes and hair melted

Both were equally relieved when the bus stopped somewhere close enough to Baker Street that they could walk even in the heavy snow. The only problem was that now they were wet and had to go back out into the cold and wind.

If Sherlock walked behind John to shield him from the brunt of the wind, neither of them said anything.

* * *

A/N: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG AND THAT IT'S SO SHORT! I got no reviews on the other chapter suggesting weather conditions so I had to think something up. And I've been busy.

I'll try and update more regularly.

Despite that, I hope you all enjoyed this. Please tell me what you think of it and what weather conditions you'd like to see done.


	3. Thunder Storm

**A/N: **Sorry this took so long! I've been sick for over a week now. I meant to write Thursday night, but I spent all evening in a clinic. This has only been looked over by me, so there may be mistakes as I am still very sick.

I mean to do a hot day, as suggest by heddyvalle, but well I live in Canada and when I started writing there was a huge snowstorm going on (it lasted days) and I had legitimately forgotten what it felt like to be warm. So I went with Lenore's suggestion and did a thunderstorm. Sorry that there's no rainbow. I'll try and include that with the chapter that's actually about 'rain' and not 'thunder'.

Anyway, sorry it took so long and that it's so short.

* * *

_The loud crash of a bomb landing, hitting its mark. He heard screaming but couldn't figure out whose it was. And then he realized it was his._

"- wake _up_!" The out-of-character note of desperation in the voice that was usually so cool and composed brought John back from Afghanistan to the little flat in London.

The ex-soldier took a deep breath before opening his eyes to see his room, softly illuminated by light from the street filtering through the curtains. Rain was pounding down, casting thin, moving shadows over his best friends worried face.

Sherlock knelt awkwardly by John's bed, his hands floating near the doctor's shoulders and a look of frightened confusion on his face. The genius was out of his depth, and John would have laughed in any other circumstance, but the dark tendrils of fear from the dream still held him in their embrace.

They sat there and stared at each other silently for what seemed like hours, but it hadn't really been much more than a minute. Even he realized that that was a long time to be staring at something with whom your relationship was entirely platonic.

Silence could only be comfortable for so long, especially at half past one in the morning, and so when the tension started to thicken and things started to get awkward, John broke eye contact, cleared his throat, and muttered, "Uhm... thanks." His voice was still thick from sleep and laced with fear.

"What was your nightmare about?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

John opened his mouth, about to protest – because you can't just ask people something like that, especially ex-army doctors – when suddenly a clap of thunder rolled over them and he jumped, squeezing his eyes shut as if braced for impact.

That was all the answer Sherlock needed. "Make room," he ordered.

Stunned, John started to do as he was told. But then he regained his composure. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to get in the other side of your bed," the mad genius stated, as if it was the most obvious and normal statement ever uttered, on par with 'we're out of milk' or 'your mother called'.

Another clap of thunder and any protests John could have made where washed out with the rain. So he moved to the edge of his bed and let his best friend get in with him. He was slowly beginning to realize that there was absolutely no way that their relationship was entirely platonic and that he might be a little bit in love with his very male flatmate.

John tried to go back to sleep now that his bed was occupied by someone other than himself, but it wasn't really a very big bed. _Technically_ big enough for two, but it was much more comfortable if the two where in some way intertwined. That was a thought that John shoved out almost as soon as it had occurred to him. Almost.

Squeezing his eyes shut, John tried to ignore both his flatmate and the thunder. Both in vain. He could feel the weight of someone next to him, and every single clap of thunder had him nearly jumping out of his skin. That's when he noticed Sherlock speaking very quietly next to him. John, in his attempt to ignore the other man, hadn't heard it right away, but now he could. He would have ruled it off a sleep talking if he didn't know for a fact that Sherlock didn't do that; there where things you learnt about your flatmates whether or not you wanted to, and their sleep habits where one of those things.

John had just begun to listen more closely to the words being said when there was another clap of thunder, startling him. He'd calmed down again by the time the lightning flared, and that's when he heard Sherlock's voice again, low and soft, _counting._

"One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand," and then more thunder, though John was prepared for it this time and only tensed up instead of jumping.

* * *

When John woke up, Sherlock was _spooning him _and he didn't feel as adverse to it as he thought he might have. But that was not a thought to be having about someone you were not in a relationship with, so John carefully extracted himself without waking the other man and went downstairs to make tea.

They didn't talk about it when Sherlock came stumbling in, bleary eyed and with his hair sticking up in all different directions. But when John handed Sherlock his tea, he gave his shoulder a quick squeeze and hoped that his thankfulness showed on his face.

Because really, when the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, reverts to counting the time between the flash of lightning and the sound of thunder so that you can fall asleep, you should know that that's how he shows that he cares.

* * *

**A/N**: Please leave suggestions about what other weather conditions I should do, thank you 3


	4. Hail

**A/N: Hey, look! An update that didn't take over a week!**

**This was requested by both celestialstarynight ****_and_**** heddyvalle. I have no idea what you both expected me to do with it, but here's my attempt. I hope it pleases you.**

* * *

His whole life, John Watson had been fairly sure that no one enjoyed hail. It was, after all, icey balls of death falling from the sky, ranging in size from that of a pea to a baseball.

This is what he had thought until the first time it started to hail after he moved in with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

They'd only known each other a month when, due to the unpredictability of London weather, it started to hail. It was a rare day when it was John's day off and Sherlock both didn't have a case and wasn't acting out about it. John had planned to take advantage of the calm and the predicted good-weather to go for a nice, long, uninterrupted walk.

One would think that, after living in London for so long, John would have stopped listening to the weather man entirely, but John was, at heart, an optimist, and so he listened. Because of this, he went to sleep expecting a relaxing day where he didn't have to stress over anything, and woke up to the sound of something hitting the roof repeatedly with great force. A wave of disappointment washed over him as he groaned and stuffed his head under his pillow, changing his plan from 'a walk in the park' to 'sleeping for twenty-four hours'.

But of course the universe couldn't let him have one moment of peace and so there was a loud thud to be heard from below, almost indistinguishable from the noise he'd been trying to drown out. John sighed, but only because he really should have expected this, and hauled himself out of bed.

He cautiously made his way downstairs, expecting the worst – shattered dishes, broken pots, things he shouldn't have been getting used to seeing. But what he did see was much more odd and inexplicable than any experiment gone wrong or broken item that he could have encountered.

The thud had been books toppling over in someone's haste to open a window.

He noticed that the banging noise that had woken him up was louder here, and if John hadn't been so sleepy he probably would have known by then what was causing it. As it was, he approached the window slowly, taking care as he stepped around fallen books, and peered outside.

Hail.

Lots and lots of hail.

And Sherlock Holmes standing in the middle of the street, wearing only his dressing gown.

* * *

Unwilling to exit the flat into the storm, John had called his friends name for five minutes before capturing the detective's attention, and then proceeded to force him back inside. When confronted about his odd behaviour, Sherlock scoffed something about 'an experiment, John' and locked himself in his room for the rest of the day.

Throughout their time as flatmates before the Fall, John would come to learn that Sherlock had a strange and inexplicable fascination with ice; hail in particular. It was anything but scientific, no matter what the madman said. He'd just stare at it and memorize the lines and patterns etched into its frosty surface. And every time John tried to ask about it, he'd avoid the question.

* * *

Years later and John barely remembered that first incident. It had happened often enough that it had blurred together with all the other times it happened. So he'd just forgotten it. Until much later, after Sherlock had returned to his life, and he woke up once again to a strange banging noise.

He woke up alone, which honestly didn't happen that much anymore, but he wasn't confused; he knew by now where Sherlock had gone off to. He always went to the same place when hail started. And so John followed the path he must have taken up the stairs and into the living room. As was predicted, he found his partner sitting at the open window, gazing out into the streets filled with falling ice. John walked up behind him and put his chin on the other man's shoulder.

"When I first saw you out there in the street during this chaos, I thought for sure you where insane," John stated quietly, not wanting to break the stillness.

Sherlock smirked. "Of all the things that could lead you to that conclusion, that was the breaking point?"

"It wasn't just what you where doing. It was how you _looked_. Innocent and much younger. You were _enthralled_." John paused for a moment before continuing with the question he always had. "Why?"

He shrugged with the shoulder on which John wasn't resting. "There isn't a reason, really. I like ice the way some people like fire. At least it's safer."

In the end, John accepted that answer and planted a kiss on his lovers cheek before standing up and going off to make tea. Sometimes things where simple, even with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you all enjoyed. I am always, always, ****_always_**** open for suggestions on what to do next!**


	5. Heat - Interim

**A/N: **Sorry that this is short and sucks. Heat was requested by heddyvalle. It kinda went from 'about heat' to being more introspective, so this is sorta an interim chapter.

In other news: I am part of the AO3 Authors Auction so buy me. And the reason this sort of changes tone at one point is 'cause I started it, then started a SuperWhoLock fic, and then finished this. The SuperWhoLock fic will probably be up in May, as I am going away on vacation from April 18th to 25th. I will try to get another chapter up before I leave, but no promises. And I will not be writing while I am away.

* * *

It had been hot all week, well into the 30s, but from the moment he woke up, John could tell that today was going to be worse.

He woke up to find that he'd kicked off his sheet while he slept and the air hung thick with a very dry heat despite the air conditioning's best attempts. John decided right then and there that he was going to call in sick to work because though the hospital had AC, it wasn't very reliable.

When he got out of bed, he noticed that his t-shirt was soaked through with sweat so he peeled it off before leaving his room, not bothering to put on another as his plan was to jump in a cold shower anyway. No use ruining two shirts unnecessarily.

His stomach growled, making him change his plans. _Breakfast, then shower, _he decided, forgetting that he was only half dressed and walking down the stairs into the living room. Reaching the main room, he saw Sherlock lying on the couch, wearing his usual pyjama bottoms, old shirt, and blue dressing gown. With one arm flung over his head, he appeared to be asleep.

That illusion was shattered when he spoke up. "John, it's too hot to think," he complained.

John couldn't help but laugh. "Has the great Sherlock Holmes finally admitted to having a weakness? The _heat_?"

The genius pocked his head out from under his arm to glare at John. "Don't be daft."

"Well what else would you call the heat making you unable to think?" he teased, walking into the kitchen.

Though John couldn't see him, he imagined Sherlock waving a hand vaguely in the air about him when he next spoke. "It's just a... minor setback."

John grinned, tossing two pieces of toast in the toaster. Just for him; the git on the couch could fend for himself. "Lucky you don't have a case on, then."

"I could still solve something as pedestrian as a murder, John. I'm still the smartest man in London."

"Says the man sulking on the couch." He got out a plate, as well as a knife, a jar of jam, and a jar of peanut butter.

"I am not sulking, John."

He set the kettle boiling and got out two mugs with two teabags, knowing Sherlock would want one as well. "Then what would you call 'lying on the couch in pyjamas and complaining'?"

The 'smartest man in London' has no answer for that.

When the toast was ready, he took out the pieces with his bare hands (he knew it was a bad idea, but it was easy) and put them on his plate. He covered one in jam and the other in peanut butter and began to eat them while he waited for the kettle to come to a boil, only realizing then that hot tea on a hot day may not be the best decision, but the kettle had already started heating up so it was too late now.

He'd finished the piece of toast with jam by the time the kettle was ready, so he poured the hot water into the mugs to let it steep. Half of his second piece of toast was gone by the time he decided the tea was ready, so he put milk in both and then sugar into Sherlocks. They both took their tea much like their coffee; John liked to taste the natural flavour, while Sherlock liked to sweeten it, often to a sickening degree. Without consulting him, John was trying to cut back on the amount of sugar that Sherlock used in both coffee and tea.

John brought both mugs into the living room and placed one down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock before heading back to the kitchen, fetching his toast, and returning to the living room to sit in his armchair. A cool breeze wafted through the room and he was suddenly reminded of the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt. For a second, he was self conscious (_because of the scar_, he told himself), but that passed when he remembered that Sherlock was and had been covering his face.

It had been harder as of late to keep himself from completely falling for his flatmate. He could feel it; a little more each day. Of course, he tried to ignore it, but it was a lot harder than one would think. Especially after the thunderstorm incident. Which John was definitely _not_ thinking about.

He took a sip of his tea to distract himself and nearly choked on it because really hot tea on a day like that was very possibly the worst idea he'd ever had.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading this even though it sucked. Please leave suggestions for future chapters.


	6. Rain

It was already raining large, cold drops when they arrived at the crime scene. Though neither had an umbrella, John was lucky enough to have had to foresight to wear a rain slicker. Sherlock, however, was in his customary Belstaf coat, cut out for cold weather but not rain.

"If we stay out here much longer, you're going to get sick," John warned quietly as Sherlock stooped low, examining the face of the victim. She was twenty-two, blonde, blue eyed, and in law school. Dead, seemingly, of blunt force trauma to the back of her head, caused by the bloody golf club lying off to the side. Seemed like a garden-variety murder from the outside, but there wasn't near enough blood. Either the house they where in, which was in a developing neighbourhood and consequently wasn't entirely built yet, wasn't where she was killed, in which case why drop the weapon with her, or the knock to the head wasn't the cause of her condition, and if that second one was the case, what _was_ the cause?

They where on the top floor of the house, and the roof was mostly built, but it was still missing sections which where currently covered by garish blue tarps. So though not much rain was getting through, it was still very cold and windy.

"John, I am _not_ going to get _sick._" Sherlock said it as if it was a complete and utter impossibility. The doctor, however, knew better. He'd been working in his field long enough to know that even the strongest immune systems would give out under the conditions Sherlock was under – cold, wet, hadn't eaten in about twelve hours, hadn't slept in twenty-four (and even then it was only for four hours), and stress caused by his sudden return from the dead. They where actually luck to have this case at all; it was the first one since his return, four months prior. John had been starting to worry that they he was going to tear the flat apart.

"That's what you think," John scoffed, crossing his arms. "You have two minutes before I am dragging you by the collar into a cab."

Sherlock glared at him, but seemed to accept that there would be nothing he could do the sway the doctor's decision. When John set his mind to something, nothing short of a disaster could challenge his decision.

And then, suddenly, the tarp fell in over their heads, bringing with it a large pool of rain water that had collected in the hours since it had been put up. John, Sherlock, and Lestrade, who'd been the only ones standing close enough around the body when it had happend, stood there shocked and soaking wet. Though John and Lestrade had narrowly avoided being hit by the tarp, Sherlock had been right under it with the body and hadn't been so lucky.

After the ex-soldier and the detective inspector got back to their senses, they helped the struggling genius out of his predicament. They burst out laughing the moment the tall man was free; with his wet hair and the face he was pulling, he looked like a cat that had just been forced to take a bath. Rain was now pouring down on them from the new hole in the ceiling.

"C'mon, let's get you home," laughed John, who was once again very grateful for the fact that he was wearing a rain slicker. He flipped up his hood to try and further protect form the rain, but the large amount of water from the tarp and already gotten underneath so really it was too late. Didn't hurt to try, though.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted by a sneeze, which caused the DI to join in with John's laughter.

* * *

**A/N: **Hey guys. So I'm going to Florida for a week and will not be back until the 26th. I will probably not get much writing of this done until then, however reviews and suggestions are welcome because I will still be able to check my e-mail, etc.

Also, I am taking part in the AO3 Authors Auction and my page is here (doc) com/quietlittlevoices

The writing period starts the day after my birthday so maybe possibly as a present to me you could bid for me?


	7. It's A Reference

**A/N: **Sorry for taking forever and ever to update this! I kinda cheated with this chapter; it's technically 'windy day' but really it's just John making quotes of something you'll either get right away or will learn at the end.

As always, you input on what else I should do is much appreciated.

* * *

John walked into the main room of the flat to find Sherlock still seated at the kitchen table doing experiments in the clothes he'd been wearing the day before, obviously not having left the room all night.

He glanced out of the window to see overcast, grey skies, and trash being pulled this way and that all over the street by unseen forces. "Happy Winds-Day, Sherlock," he muttered.

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope to look at the doctor quizzically. "It's Thursday, John. Even I know that."

"It's a reference," John informed him with a fond smile.

The 'genius' decided not to respond to that, choosing instead to turn back to his microscope.

* * *

They were called to a case before noon.

While they were standing in the street, waiting for a cab as the wind whipped at their clothes, John suddenly said, "This is just a mild, spring zephyr compared to the wind of '67. Or was it '76?"

Sherlock gave him the same look he had earlier that morning and then brushed it off, going back to waving for a cab. "I delete things like every day's weather. It's irrelevant. I can just get the information on the internet."

"My Aunt Clara went to see her cousin during that wind." John continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Her cousin is quite gifted with the glockenspiel and used to sing soprano in the London Opera."

Now Sherlock was really confused. "You don't have an Aunt Clara."

John shrugged. "It's a reference."

* * *

"I don't mind the leaves that are leaving, it's the leaves that are coming."

"What _are_ you going on about, John?"

"It's a – "

"Yes, I know. '_It's a reference_'."

* * *

It took until late evening for Sherlock to finally snap and really want to know what the subject matter was.

Earlier that day, when they'd met with Lestrade, the DI had just grinned at the ex-army doctor and asked if he was 'feeling nostalgic', to which John had replied in the affirmative. Throughout the course of the afternoon, John and Lestrade and quoted things back and forth, never bothering to inform Sherlock what, exactly, it was they were quoting.

"It's an anxious sort of night, filled with anxious sorts of noises," John announced when he returned to the flat with take-away Chinese. He set it on the coffee table and then draped his coat, hat, and mitts on an armchair.

"What are you referencing?" Sherlock demanded. He'd already asked countless times before, and had never received a satisfied answer, but it was worth another shot.

John just sat next to him with a self-satisfied smirk. "Doesn't pay to delete everything, does it?" he responded.

The consulting detective gave him a hard look. "Are you trying to prove a point with this?"

"Not really."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

A shrug. John seemed to be doing that a lot. "Because it's fun watching a genius out their depth."

Sherlock glared at him. "Is this about what happened to your jumper? That was an accident."

Without a word, John turned to start eating his take-away and Sherlock accepted some of his own, realizing that he wouldn't be getting an answer out of his friend.

"It's Winnie the Pooh," John said when they were finally done. "I've been quoting Winnie the Pooh all day, alright?"

"_That's_ why you've been so defensive? You've been referencing a _children's programme_?"

John reached up and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah."

Then, suddenly, Sherlock was wearing a devilish grin. "Can you make a one-hero party into a two-hero party?"

The comment struck John dumb for a minute before the grabbed their union jack pillow and hit his friend with it lightly. After getting over the shock that Sherlock had known all along, he turned back to his meal and said, "Of course we can, you sill old bear."


End file.
